


Green

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 04:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4249665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Radagast makes Gandalf tea and misses what could’ve been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Pining!Radagast who thinks he made his feelings known years ago and was turned down,and a completely oblivious Gandalf” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=22027755#t22027755).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He loses himself in the smoke that billows out of Gandalf’s pipe, formed in a neat little circle, ashen grey like all his hair and robes, though white glimmers through here and there. He wears it better than Saruman ever does. Or perhaps that’s just because he’s _kind_ , and that’s always meant more to Radagast than power ever will. When Gandalf sends the crisp ringlet wafting across the table, he looks so perfectly content that it puts all Radagast’s old bones at ease, like a waking, forest dream of only good things. 

Then he hears the familiar squawk from the residents that nest above his stove. He hasn’t had the heart to relocate them, but he does shoo Charlie away from the counter top when he gets there—a hot stove is no place for busybody squirrels. Charlie wriggles his nose but scurries off—he knows how much these visits mean to Radagast. They all know. Except Gandalf, perhaps—they’re old enough that he could’ve forgotten the one and only time Radagast ever breathed those certain wants outside these four walls. Maybe now they’re too old to try again. So he contents himself with sharing tea and the pipe-weed Gandalf’s brought from the west.

The kettle’s hot to the touch, which Radagast always forgets. He’s got too much in his head for everyday things. He burns the tips of his fingers and gasps at it, and Gandalf chuckles fondly from the table. The pleasant sound makes Radagast’s chest feel warmer than it was. He’s more careful with the handle, slipping his palm beneath it, the fabric tied across there like half-formed gloves. Then he bustles over to the table with the kettle in hand and tips it over Gandalf’s cup. It’s big, orange, and chipped down the side, mismatched from the one across the table. None of Radagast’s dishes match anymore. But Gandalf never complains about that sort of thing. He might be the only person in this world—furry friends excluded—who accepts Radagast just the way he is, and for that, Radagast will always love him.

There’s a lot more to it, naturally. It simply feels _right_ when they’re together, true and easy. Times like this make Radagast feel inexplicably good and safe and warm. He forgets all the darkness in the world and only has to worry about the shaking in his own hands as he pours the boiling water into his own cup, mixing in with all the herbs crushed at the bottom.

Then the kettle goes back to the stove, Radagast goes to his side of the table, and he takes a seat across from Gandalf’s gentle smile. When he lifts the tea to his mouth, he looks at Gandalf, old and wrinkled and silvery. It makes him wonder whatever happened to their youth and why they didn’t spend more time together, instead of him rooted here and Gandalf running all over. Gandalf was beautiful then, and he’s still handsome now, wizened though he is. It’s a different kind of beauty. It still makes Radagast smile.

Gandalf blows another ring and passes his pipe to his other hand, taking his cup. His hands are steadier than Radagast’s, which is probably for the best—he’s out there doing _important things._ He sniffs once at the air above the brim, then takes a sip and smacks his lips—Radagast knows he makes tea differently than the dwarves and elves and other people he’s forgotten that Gandalf often dines with. But Gandalf takes another sip all the same, and then he asks in his slow but beckoning voice, “I think I should like to stay for another day if it is not too much trouble.” He sounds tired, like he usually does when he isn’t in a hurry.

Once, when Radagast was younger, he tried to kiss Gandalf around the trunk of a great tree. He didn’t get very far; Gandalf had turned too quickly and run off around the other side. He’d blown a quick wind to knock Radagast over and chuckled, mirth and affection all across his then-smooth face. Still friends. Radagast laughed back but never forgot, though so many other things fell by the wayside. They weren’t _grey_ and _brown_ then, not really. Just two unlearned beings, one fond of adventure and mischief and the other of the earth and smaller creatures and wild mushrooms. 

He wishes now that he had the courage to try again, or that Gandalf would just come out and ask. Radagast only has one bed, but it’s large, and the family of rabbits that usually occupies the other side will understand leaving for one night. Gandalf will fit in comfortably, and it’ll be wonderful company, even if he won’t stay or whisper about the sort of things Radagast wants to. 

But Radagast isn’t that brave. So he only finishes his sip and smiles sadly, promising, “You are most welcome here any time.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Green](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11177313) by [KeeperofSeeds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeeperofSeeds/pseuds/KeeperofSeeds)




End file.
